Truth and Story: A Beloved Folk Tale (Short Stories and Wonder Tales)
A Version by Marcas Ó Conghaile Muirthemne
Once, in County Kerry – in the southwest of Ireland, a young man wandered from village to village, hoping to find someone who would listen to him. He was earnest and direct, always speaking plainly, and his eyes held a sharpness that many found unsettling.
Wherever he went, people swiftly turned away from him. They found him too harsh, too blunt, and too cold. They didn’t like the way his words cut through their comfort, laying bare what they really preferred to ignore.
The young man walked alone, his heart heavy with loneliness. He couldn’t understand why others avoided him. After all, he only spoke the truth. Yet, no one seemed willing to listen. It was dreadful.
One day, as he wandered through a thick forest, outside of Killarney, he came upon a small, cozy cottage. Outside the cottage sat an old woman, busy stitching together a cloak of many colours. She looked up and smiled warmly when she put her eyes on him, the first smile the young man had seen in what felt like ages.
"Come, sit with me," the old woman said, gesturing to a bench beside her. The young man hesitated, but then accepted her offer, grateful for the kindness in her gaze.
After a while, the young man shared some his troubles with the old woman. He spoke of how people always turned away from him, how they refused to listen, and how they shunned him as if he were something to be feared. To be dreaded even.
The old woman listened quietly, her hands never stopping their work on the cloak. When the young man had finished, she said,
"It’s not your words they fear, but how you present them. Ye must learn to soften the edges, to offer your message in a way that they can receive it."
"Ah, but how?" the young man asked, with some exasperation.
The old woman smiled and held up the nearly finished cloak. "Here, let me show ye son."
She then draped the cloak over the young man’s shoulders. Suddenly he felt different—softer, warmer, more approachable.
"Now," the old woman continued, "You go back to the villages, speak to the folk there again. But this time, wear my cloak. Tell your stories with warmth, with colour, and with care."
The young man did just as the old woman advised. As he returned to the villages, people no longer turned away. Instead, they gathered around him, drawn to the vibrant cloak that now adorned him.
A real céad míle fáilte – Which means ‘one hundred thousand welcomes’ in English.
They listened to him, captivated by the stories he wove. And as they listened, they began to understand the deeper meanings within his words and tales.
They no longer feared what he had to say. In fact, they welcomed it, appreciated it, even sought it out. The young man marvelled at the change and returned to the old woman to thank her.
"You’ve given me a great gift," he said. "I understand now what you meant. But who are ye, really, and why did you help me?"
The old woman smiled, her eyes twinkling with well-earned wisdom. "I am Story".
"And you, young fella, are Truth.
Alone, you are too much for many to face.
But wrapped in the cloak of Story,
You’re someone people can embrace."
From that day on, Truth and Story travelled together, inseparable companions. And wherever they went, people gathered to listen, not always aware that the stories they loved were filled with the very truth they once feared.
‘Tell all the Truth but tell it slant’
- Emily Dickinson
‘The great questions – “Who are we?” “Why are we here?” “What is our task?” – are best answered by telling a story...'
– Jonathan Sacks